


I Will Pull You So Close

by WednesdaysDaughter



Series: From Stone to Stars [4]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canon Compliant, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Fluff and Angst, King Alistair (Dragon Age), Long-Distance Relationship, Post-Dragon Age II, Post-Dragon Age: Origins, Post-Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening, The Calling (Dragon Age)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-08
Updated: 2020-01-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:21:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22177705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WednesdaysDaughter/pseuds/WednesdaysDaughter
Summary: “You know, people here normally do that behind closed doors or in a shady alcove. My love has no shame,” he teases.“I can’t kiss you freely in the castle so I’m going to take advantage of this adventure to kiss you everywhere I can – no matter the number of witnesses.”Her words settle beneath his ribs and light his blood on fire.“I can’t wait to see the look on Bhelen’s face when I kiss you on Orzammar’s throne!”
Relationships: Alistair/Female Warden (Dragon Age), Female Aeducan/Alistair (Dragon Age)
Series: From Stone to Stars [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1037115
Kudos: 9





	I Will Pull You So Close

**Author's Note:**

> Who here feels personally victimized by Sleeping at Last? Not just me I hope - Venus is where I got the title and then a lot of their songs filled in the rest. I have so, so so many feelings about Alistair in general and King Ali with a lover wandering Thedas really gets my goat (in a good way).

He does not marry during the first year of his reign.

There are dead to bury and homes to be rebuilt; alliances are strengthened and the nobility is too shocked at his appointment of an Elven ambassador to focus on the lack of a Queen. Alistair and Shianni bond over ale at a local tavern when the city has gone to bed and he’s not surprised to learn she has spies in his employ.

“Wasn’t my idea, but it is a good one.”

In the corner, unnoticed by the handful of patrons, stands his permanent bodyguard and Alistair snorts into his pint when Zevran raises his own in a toast.

“It seems my love has decided being King will soften my sword arm.”

Shianni detects no resentment in his voice, but a profound longing that forms a fist around her own heart in sympathy.

“If she believed that sire, she wouldn’t have left your side for all the titles and gold in Orzammar.”

Alistair hums in agreement and decides to focus on the matter at hand; he’d received missives from Keeper Lanaya about human skirmishes along their border and was hoping Shianni would have some insight. They strategize well past midnight and by the time he and Zevran make it back to the castle the sky has lightened slightly in the East.

He wonders whether Lisbeth has made it to Amaranthine safely. It’d been almost a month since they had parted ways, reluctantly following their duty to the people. He was there in Orzammar when King Bhelen had formally reinstated her status as Princess, after making her quietly promise not to pursue his throne. Lisbeth, predictably, reacted with grace and agility when she thrust her ornate dagger beneath his throat.

“If I wanted it, I could take it – do not forget this brother.”

Eventually when tempers cooled, she swore on a great slab of stone that she had no designs on Orzammar’s throne and wished only to serve the people of Orzammar. The Shaperate recast her name and the Assembly unanimously declared her a Paragon – the second of clan Aeducan.

He watched her fight in a Proving, taking down challenger after challenger until the roars were deafening. Clearly his love was adored by her people, even those who initially rallied behind her exile caught up with her at the end – praising her prowess in battle.

“Of course she’s amazing,” Alistair preened, “she took down an Archdemon with one hand tied behind her back.”

Lisbeth had rolled her eyes and attempted to curb the crowd’s astonished cries as they demanded a detailed retelling of her triumph. Ultimately she gave in and by the time she’d finished Alistair could’ve sworn every dwarf left with plans on joining house Aeducan, one way or another.

Standing in the background, watching her shine beneath the deserved praise, Alistair is startled when Bhelen addresses him.

“Will you make her Queen on the surface?”

The question packs a heavier punch than Oghren’s battle axe, nearly knocking Alistair into the wall behind him. He studies Bhelen, looking for signs of scheming disdain, but he cannot find a trace of anything but simple curiosity. 

“I would,” he confesses to the halls of her ancestors. He wonders if the desire in his voice can be felt by the sentient stone she pressed her forehead against after returning home the first and second time. Bhelen considers his words carefully and something tells Alistair this is a rare occurrence he’s witnessing.

“I intend to open Orzammar to all who wish to see her glory. We’ll bring the castless back into the fold and spread trade across every inch of this land and beyond the seas. By doing this the humans of the surface might come to see we have much to give and those born beneath this mountain are deserving of courtesy whether or not they ended a Blight.”

Alistair is rendered speechless at the thoughtful declaration, though that warm feeling quickly dissipates with Bhelen’s final word.

“Besides, she can’t hold two crowns – better it’s up there than down here.”

Lisbeth arrives in time to stop Alistair from doing something rash, like kicking Bhelen into a river of molten rock. She must sense his frustration, because she pulls him towards her quarters and orders meals to be delivered to her door until she states otherwise.

“You brilliant woman,” Alistair praises between kisses along her strong jaw.

“Were you expecting anything less?” she teases before pushing him down onto her bed and all coherent thought vanishes until breakfast is brought the next morning.

Once they leave Orzammar and reach the crossroads where they must part, Lisbeth pulls a ring from a hidden pouch she’d tucked next to her heart.

Brilliant sapphires shine beneath the sun surrounded by polished silver, reminding him of the Grey Warden’s uniform. Runes are carved inside the band and he doesn’t have to be fluent in her native tongue to understand its message, but her voice fills in the blanks anyway.

“Yours; beyond the stone’s calling – I will return.”

Their lips sting for hours afterwards, swollen from desperation and a hunger so deep they feel it stronger than the taint rushing through their veins.

When Alistair receives word of the assault on Amaranthine, he doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t know about the swell of rumors that overtake Denerim in his absence, but he does take note of the way certain nobles refuses to meet his eyes when he returns.

“Cut out any tongues while I was away?” he asks Zevran later on that night and the former Crow simply shakes his head.

“Tempting… but no. I have other ways of silencing those who dare disparage my friends: Ways that do not burden the staff.”

Alistair is well aware of Zevran’s devotion to Lisbeth and while he’d never admit it unless under extreme duress, he is unfathomably grateful.

“Just see to it any blood is cleaned up in a timely manner and I’ll pretend I didn’t see the Arl of the West Hills shoved into the western most broom closet by a cloaked figure.”

Zevran bows and turns to take his leave, but not before chuckling darkly when Alistair mumbles beneath his breath.

“Though I’m certain he deserved it.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

He does not marry during the third year of his reign.

There are rumblings of discontent brewing in Kirkwall and Alistair spends night wondering when it’d be the most advantageous moment to intervene.

His advisers are torn on the matter, some of them choosing to focus on crafting a list of eligible maidens whose house would both benefit the crown and their own standing. Anora is, surprisingly, the only one who refuses to take part in finding him a bride.

“The Qunari pose a serious threat and they’d rather debate on the merits of a vanilla cake verses a chocolate one. Old fools,” she scowls at the hastily written resumes of women who she knows for a fact cannot compare to the true holder of Alistair’s affections.

The years have softened the edges of their conflict, due in no small part to Lisbeth’s constant correspondence with them both. Anora had been out maneuvered and she’d since admitted grudging admiration for someone adept at playing a game few could survive.

“ _You could give the Orleasian's a run for their coin_ ,” she once wrote in a letter to Lisbeth after the Gray Warden had sent forth trade agreements she had procured in her travels between Orzammar and the slowly recovering Arling.

“ _Funnily enough_ ,” Lisbeth had replied, “ _you are not the first to say so_.”

“Oh do you think they’d settle for a nice berry frosting? I do love my sweets,” Alistair replies from behind his latest communication with Kirkwall’s Viscount.

“I’d imagine they’d give you whatever you wanted if you agreed to marry someone already,” Anora’s deadpan reply pulls his attention away long enough for him to shoot her an unimpressed frown he’d perfected since taking the throne.

“Out of curiosity are you on that list Anora?”

She scoffs, “I’ve already given up my claim to the throne Alistair, they’d be even more mad than usual to suggest such a dalliance.”

“Besides,” she continues before he can reply, “it’d be like marrying my annoying little brother. Inbreeding may be popular in Tevinter, but we have standards in the south.”

The bark of laughter he emits causes her lips to curl in amusement, but she keeps her back to him so he cannot see it.

“It’s not as if any of these ladies would accept your proposal anyway.”

She can picture the offended look on his face with perfect clarity and is pleased to see she’d gotten it spot on when she finally turns to face him.

“Why do you say that? I’m a King and a hero of the Blight – not to mention I can juggle with one hand and I speak fluent Mabari. I, my good lady, am a catch.”

He attempts to wiggle his eyebrows, but Anora is not swayed in the slightest, “I have two words for you oh mighty King: Lisbeth Aeducan.”

The wind leaves his sails as quickly as it came and she almost regrets bring her up. It’d been six months since she’d found time to visit Denerim. Anora can still recall the way his face lit up when she strolled up to the throne every bit as regal as those who walked the castle’s halls on a daily basis.

Clearing his throat, Alistair turns his attention back to his messy desk, “We have an arrangement. She would understand.”

“Of that I am certain, Lisbeth is a woman of remarkable honor and cunning: Not to mention she has the biggest heart of anyone I’ve ever met – expect,” Anora concedes, “yourself.”

He nods softly as if lost in a daydream, letting Anora continue, “And while she may remain at your side while you take a human wife, I cannot fathom a single brave soul who dare stand where she should be allowed to.”

This causes Alistair to look up, surprise splashed across his face at her candor.

“I’ve spoken with most of these ladies and they hold the Hero of Ferelden in the highest regard. Your relationship is no secret Alistair and while many dream of being Queen one day the solidarity between our gender can curb our oldest desires.”

Silence falls between them softly like the snow soon to come; Anora, having said her piece and Alistair too stunned to form words. Finally he breaks and the clouds part letting the sun through the window in time to light up a smile he bears without restraint. Anora briefly wonders if it was that smile which caused Lisbeth to fall in love with such a ridiculous man.

A knock at the door interrupts the moment but it is quickly forgotten when Zevran barges in without waiting for Alistair’s go-ahead.

“She is here.”

Anora has never seen Alistair move with such haste though he is careful not to jostle her as he rushes past. Zevran’s voice fades with every step they take down the hall and Anora decides she will join them later – not wanting to intrude on what she knows will be a moment that’ll fuel castle scribes for weeks.

She moves to his desk in hopes of straightening up the chaos he cannot seem to control and stops when she notices a simple gold frame that houses a rough sketch drawn by a man so besotted he captured his feelings in the gentle curves of her cheekbones and the open vulnerability in her grey eyes though Anora knows them to be a striking blue.

Later that night Anora composes several missives and acts shocked when a week later the King’s advisers begin to tear their hair out when they receive word that several candidates for a royal marriage had declined their offer to meet with the King.

Eamon meets her eyes across the table and his exasperation is palpable. Anora shrugs and ignores the collective sighs around the table before she once more brings Kirkwall to the forefront of the meeting.

Alistair joins them later and no one is surprised when they see Lisbeth waiting at the door to say a quick farewell until they adjourn in time for dinner. The telltale sound of steel being run over stone from the darkest corner of the room silences the wagging tongues of the advisers who are less accepting of the King’s close relationship with the Hero of Ferelden.

Lisbeth locks eyes with Anora and silently conveys her gratitude for the dozens of things she cannot do, but that Anora handles without complaint. She also waves quickly to Zevran who takes the time to stop scaring the nobility long enough to incline his head deeper than the bows he gives Alistair, which Anora can tell ruffles some feathers around the table.

Three hours trickle by and no decisive decision has been made on the Kirkwall front: Alistair’s frustration is clear in the way he rubs his temples and gazes wistfully at the door to freedom. Anora decides enough is enough and adjourns the gathering.

“As senior adviser it’s well within my rights to call a cease to these proceedings. An answer will not be reached today and we have an important guest in the castle. This senseless deliberation can wait until cooler heads decide to make an appearance. Your majesty,” Anora bows and Alistair is quick on her heels.

“I owe you a dozen sweet cakes Anora,” he mumbles under his breath once he spots Lisbeth playing fetch with her Mabari, Grunt, in the courtyard below.

“Make it two dozen and we’ll call it even,” Anora bargains knowing she will not be able to escape the ire of the ambassadors for long.

Alistair reaches out to shake her hand firmly, “Done.”

She watches him dash down the maze of hallways until she’s able to see him burst into the courtyard from the window which houses a bluebird’s nest. Anora coos over the three eggs nestled tightly and is joined by Zevran who is content to watch his friends frolic without the weight of the world on their shoulders.

“Do you think they will ever change their minds?” he quietly asks, jerking his head in the direction of the reluctant shuffling of feet behind them.

Alistair’s joyful laughter floats upwards, filling the cobbled walls with inexplicable bliss and Anora carefully watches the heads of several ambassadors turn at the sound; some of their faces obscured but their body language reads as clear as day.

“Perhaps,” Anora silently hopes, “with time.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

He does not marry during the sixth year of his reign.

Kirkwall is a powder keg about to explode and it seems like people are finally taking notice. Alistair is thrilled, but for slightly different reasons.

The height of spring finds him on the road traveling to the Circle of Magi, but he is not alone. Lisbeth and Grunt walk a few feet ahead, keeping an eye out for bandit traps and ferocious wildlife. They’ve just left the Brecilian Forest after checking on the Dalish. Thanks to Shianni and Keeper Lanaya, Alistair was able to establish definite paths through several forests throughout Ferelden to minimize human and elf conflict.

He tried, and failed, not to act surprised when his idea actually worked and when he said as much to Lisbeth the night before they left camp she huffed in disbelief.

“Of course it worked Ali, it was a good idea. Try to have a little more faith in yourself would you?”

He had no choice but to kiss her into the soft grass and their merriment filled the Dalish camp with an aura of harmony. They were seen off with knowing smiles and packs of supplies with more than enough necessities to see them to the Tower and then Orzammar.

“Atish’an my friends, may your journey be uneventful.”

Alistair chuckles, “Forgive me Keeper Lanaya, but I’m not sure uneventful is in our vocabulary – isn’t that right my dear?”

Laughter rings through the vibrant foliage as Lisbeth hangs her head in defeat, “Now that you’ve said that we’re bound to run into all sorts of trouble. Just for that, you’re in charge of latrine duty for the entirety of our trip.”

Even Keeper Lanaya cannot withhold her mirth as Alistair whines at the ‘unfairness of it all’ until they are spots in the distance.

Lisbeth’s warning holds true as they are ambushed three times by would-be bandits and a wild bear nearly has Alistair for a mid-day snack if it hadn’t been for Grunt’s quick reflexes. By the time they reach the Circle, Alistair’s travel clothes need darning in several places and Lisbeth has gained a new scar on her right collarbone when her armor didn’t quite reach.

“I swear if you say ‘I told you so’ I’m going to drown myself in that lake and then you’ll feel _really_ bad.”

Lisbeth mimes buttoning her lips shut, but he can read the smugness in her blue eyes until he groans in defeat; feet dragging themselves over to the boat where an unfamiliar Templar awaits to take them across.

Grand Enchanter Irving is pleasantly surprised by their visit, but is quick to assure them they are most welcome. He shows Alistair around the latest improvements and they talk of fledgling policies that could see enactment within the year.

Afterwards Alistair finds Lisbeth chatting with Dagna who is star-struck and hurling words at her with alarming speed. Lisbeth appears to have no trouble keeping up so Alistair decides to go looking for trouble on his own. Grunt, sensing the playful aura of his master’s mate trails behind him and is quick to stop Alistair from accidentally blowing himself up when he stumbles across a volatile workspace.

“Figures you wouldn’t be content to just stand around and look pretty.”

Lisbeth’s voice does not make him jump no matter what several witnesses will say during the evening meal. Her words, however, make him flush and fidget as if they’d traveled back in time. Her delight at his response makes his cheek burn even more until she’s forced to pull him into a quick kiss.

“You know, people here normally do that behind closed doors or in a shady alcove. My love has no shame,” he teases.

“I can’t kiss you freely in the castle so I’m going to take advantage of this adventure to kiss you everywhere I can – no matter the number of witnesses.”

Her words settle beneath his ribs and light his blood on fire.

“I can’t wait to see the look on Bhelen’s face when I kiss you on Orzammar’s throne.”

Her cackle is the embodiment of pure pandemonium and Alistair sputter’s a broken reply which she greedily swallows up until he doesn’t care about the number of Templars taking bets on how long they can go without breaking for air.

Two minutes and thirty-eight seconds.

That night several residents of the Circle exchange coins, but none seem to be broke up about it – if anything they seem impressed. Lisbeth preens beneath their attention and Alistair wishes the floor would swallow him up when he overhears a mage asking for advice in hushed whispers. In the end, wine loosens what Lisbeth has dubbed his ‘Kingly Graces’ and he’s able to enjoy a few games of Wicked Grace without combusting into flames.

Well into their third round, Lisbeth cozies up to his side and runs her fingers slowly up and down his muscled thigh until he gives up all pretenses and leaps from the table.

“If you’ll excuse us gentlemen.”

Alistair feels like he’s maintained a sense of dignity until Lisbeth’s raucous squeal when he picks her up with one arm, tucking her securely beneath his armpit breaks his composure. Cheerful hoots and hollers follow them up the steps until they reach their designated room.

Three days later they leave the Circle in greater spirits than when they had arrived. Grand Enchanter Irving is quick to mention such a lively atmosphere had not been felt in a long time and Alistair is too ecstatic to feel an ounce of embarrassment beneath the old man’s perceptive gaze.

“Go with our fondest blessings friends; may you bring as much joy to Orzammar as you have to this place.”

Alistair wisely keeps his mouth shut and inclines his head in time with Lisbeth who thanks Irving once more for his hospitality. The ride across the lake is peaceful, giving them both a reprieve from the exuberant atmosphere they inevitably were responsible for.

“I heard you and Irving were hoping to implement regulations that would help mages feel more at home in the Circles.”

“Many are taken from their homes as children, some forced to leave their clans until they’re wounded or starving: There has to be a better way.”

Lisbeth slides her hand into his, squeezing gently as the weight suddenly perched on Alistair’s weary shoulders.

“You’re worried about Kirkwall’s Circle aren’t you?”

The boat stops at the docks and they gather their belongings as Alistair’s mind immediately transports itself back to his study where reports of Templar and Mage corruption have taken over.

“The Qunari are our first and foremost concern, but I cannot ignore the stories coming from The Gallows. If something is not done, I fear the worst.”

They walk in silence until the road leading to Orzammar is laid beneath their feet. Lisbeth turns suddenly and raises the hand clutched in hers to her lips. Heat travels up his arm and his heart pounds like drums in his years.

It never ceases to amaze him how her touch can set his entire body (and soul) alight as if she were the embodiment of the sun.

“You are every bit the King I knew you’d be. This heart of yours,” she sighs fondly using her free hand to caress his worn travel shirt where he’s certain she can feel its frantic pounding underneath, “I’m jealous of those who get to see it when I’m not around.”

Suddenly their inevitable separation seems closer on the horizon than it had minutes ago and desperation causes Alistair to pull her into his arms; refusing mere inches to stand between them. It’s not something they talk about often even though the number of her visits to Denerim have decreased at a steady rate.

The Wardens keep her busy, though she is less frantic since receiving word that her friend Anders is in Kirkwall. Nathaniel too has left the Waking Sea for a short while, leaving Oghren and Sigrun in charge while Lisbeth travels.

There’s something feral in the way she kisses him this time around: As if she’s afraid of something he cannot see. Alistair tries not to let it worry him even as she digs her fingers into his back; he in turn attempts to pull her directly into his chest when she can be sheltered by his ribcage – with him always until the Calling creeps into his mind.

Eventually they pull away and Alistair takes the initiative this time, bending down to press a million confessions of love and devotion into her full lips until a smile blooms brilliantly across her face. Whatever haunted her has passed into the depths of her mind where he cannot follow and Alistair guides her down the dirt path pretending that she’s not saying goodbye.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

He does not marry during the eighth year of his reign.

No one dare bring up the notion for fear of disappearing off the face of Thedas. The Hero of Ferelden has gone missing and no one knows where she has gone. It didn’t take much convincing for Zevran to leave his post in hope of utilizing the handful of contacts that didn’t want him dead. He returns, empty handed, four months later and tries to bite back the crushing sense of failure when the light in Alistair’s eyes dim.

At first he thought she was delayed at Weisshaupt, but when he received word she’d left their stronghold two months previous he began to worry. There’d been no communication, no sightings from allies along the road – it was if she had vanished from the world completely. Zevran contacted Leliana who had more reach since she’d begun serving the Divine and sent word to Wynne who’d been traveling with Shale in the Western Approach.

Their disheartening replies sent Alistair into a quiet, controlled, down-spiral that only his closet friends bore witness to.

While barricaded in his study he absently twists the ring on his finger, letting his mind travel back in time to the first time he saw her: Barefoot and face streaked with dried mud which distorted her intricate tattoos. There was something so striking about her very presence Alistair felt the ground shift beneath his feet when she smiled at him the first time.

Anora takes it upon herself to vet the endless missives that enter the castle making sure those that cannot be addressed by anyone but the King are put into his hands. She handles the rest with the help of four other advisers who’ve tentatively discussed revising the marital requirements of Ferelden’s Queen. The silent campaign she’d begun five years ago had finally begun to bear fruit, but it was a bittersweet victory.

Anora worries after her friend, sighing in defeat when she receives word from Nathaniel Howe confirming Lisbeth had not been seen since last winter. She is, however, pleased to learn that there are several individuals utilizing various favors and debts in hopes of finding answers.

‘ _How cherished you are by the people of this land_ ,’ Anora muses as her eyes scan a dispatch from her Kirkwall contact, ‘ _they chose you as Queen long ago_.’

Time cares little for the affairs of men and continues forward, bringing with it new conflicts to replace the old. Most days find Alistair in talks from sun up to sun down as he attempts to settle disputes big and small.

“His composure is commendable,” Arl Gwaine declares after the latest meeting: Scattered rumors of civil war brewing in Orlais have everyone on edge and they couldn’t have come at worse time.

“Indeed,” Eamon concedes, “he has come a long way from the boy I once knew. Any expectations I once held have since been surpassed.”

“I’m surprised you had any,” Teyrn Uther scoffs from the back of the gathering, “I followed your lead after the Landsmeet but I’ll confess I had no hopes in our King – blood doesn’t always lead to greatness.”

“I wish someone had told me that before I put this paperweight on my head, it does absolutely nothing for my hair.”

A hush falls over the hallway and the men whip around to see Alistair leaning casually against an obscured alcove they hadn’t noticed earlier.

“Y-Y-Your Majesty, I… I beg your pardon,” Uther stutters as the blood drains from his withered face.

Alistair waves the apology away and continues to stare at the vibrant sunset casting shadows across the market where people slowly pack up their wares. The stall where Gorim planted his flag has long since been taken over by a Dalish couple whose Ironbark masterworks are a huge success.

The uneasy silence lingers like acrid smoke until Alistair sighs, his refuge found and despoiled, and turns to address the cluster of advisers who are frozen like mice in the presence of a cat.

Zevran beats him to the punch, shoving sharply into the Teyrn and refusing to address the hissed insults thrown at his back. He clutches an envelope in his hand, the atmosphere suddenly charged with a tangible tension. The rumble of thunder in the distance pulls Alistair from his stupor as clouds obscure the red and orange hues lingering in the sky. Zevran is the only one who sees his hands shake as they envelop the first sign of hope in six silent months.

Alistair barely makes it to the privacy of his quarters before his fingers carefully free the letter from its confines. The familiar swirl of her handwriting nearly unravels him then and there.

_My love,_

_What can I possibly say that will ease your troubled mind? If our positions were reversed I’d ride through the rain and snow – tying myself to my horse so I’d sleep sitting up – until I was by your side again. Every time we parted ways I tucked a piece of myself away for you to carry safely, it feels as if there is a hole in the center of my chest. Please believe me when I say this journey I have undertaken is of utmost importance, but its length is a mystery – even to me. I have heard rumors pertaining to a cure for the Taint. Perhaps I am chasing ghosts, but if I can extend our time together by decades at the price of this time apart now then I’ll consider it a fair trade. Know my love for you runs deeper than the veins of lyrium in Orzammar and pulses with the brilliance of a million stars._

_I will return._

_Yours,  
Lisbeth_

He rereads her words until he loses count; her voice filling the back of his mind as if she were in the room with him. A single rose petal rests at the bottom of the envelope, reminding him of the glass necklace he had commissioned for her which housed three petals from the rose he gave her during the Blight. She pressed the remainder in a journal Wynne had gotten her after the Archdemon had been slain.

Hand pressed over his heart with her letter, Alistair curls into himself and lets the overwhelming swell of emotions crash into his trembling frame. Relief wars with apprehension while hope does its best to comfort the bleeding loneliness that threatens to overtake them all. As rain pounds against the windows, tears stream down his heated flesh until his body has no more left to give.

The letter takes its place in a pocket sown over his left breast – close to his heart at all times. Alistair vows that when she returns he will move the stars themselves to keep her by his side. They’ll be together again; forever this time.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

He does not marry during the tenth year of his reign.

The world is on fire: A gaping hole in the sky spitting out demons tends to put lot of things in perspective. Between the mages swearing an alliance with Tevinter and the tug-o-war between Celene and Gaspard for the Orlesian throne Alistair finds himself wishing he’d abdicated when he had the chance.

‘ _A cabin in the Wilds sounds pretty good right about now_ ,’ he laments.

One of Leliana’s crows pecks at a roll of bread he’d brought up from the kitchen. She’d been keeping him informed of the Inquisition’s progress since Redcliffe. He recalls a rushed introduction with the ‘Herald of Andraste’ – Daine Lavellen: A stern looking elf with a scar bisecting her left eyebrow that did little to detract from her remarkable vallaslin.

Alistair will be the first to admit it wasn’t the best first impression, but she seemed to have a lot on her mind as well for her greeting was just as curt. Leliana’s letters speak highly of her skill in battle as well as Daine’s ability to command respect in a room full of naysayers.

‘ _She reminds me of Lisbeth._ ’

It’s been two years since his love left to find a cure for the Calling and there’s been no word. He hasn’t stopped looking, neither has Zevran or Leliana – the later more determined than ever since Grey Wardens as a whole have disappeared.

The first night he woke drenched in sweat he knew where they had gone.

Panic followed him around the halls as a dull ache began to creep into the back of his mind – tiny tendrils of terror that made him jump at shadows and resist the need to sleep. When he felt the pull of the Calling, Alistair immediately sent word to Oghren who was comfortable with his wife and two children in Amaranthine.

‘ _It’s too soon_ ,’ Alistair had written, ‘ _I shouldn’t be feeling it yet and neither should you. Tell Howe and the others to stay put – no grand ventures into the Deep Roads until I get some answers_.’

If anyone can tell something’s changed in their King, they do not voice it where he can hear. Zevran’s closer to him than his own shadow most days and Anora takes papers from his desk as if it were her study and not his. By the time he receives a reply from Oghren, Leliana has mentioned a Warden by the name of Blackwall who has no more answers than anyone else.

‘ _Don’t know why you’re getting worked up over a little ole’ headache, being King musta softened yer brain_.’

Alistair appreciates how time has done nothing to soften Oghren’s manners and breathes a little easier as the letter goes on.

‘ _I’ll go crawling back to that pit when the Commander drags me there herself – I’m not going anywhere. Howe says he’ll try and reach out to the others; Anders and Velanna too so quit yer worrin’ about this Calling nonsense and fix the damn hole in the sky_!’

Knowing that Lisbeth’s friends are safe – as safe as a Grey Warden can be – helps Alistair focus on aiding the Inquisition. In turn, they stop a Venatori agent from poisoning his dinner. Were the world not tossed into chaos, Alistair would’ve found time to visit Skyhold and attempt a second introduction with the newly dubbed Inquisitor. His advisers are against it of course, even Anora who typically lends him her support.

“We can’t afford to let anything happen to you and you know it. It’s bad enough you left for Redcliffe while apostates roamed the hills!”

“If this is about my lack of an heir Anora, I –” Alistair begins hotly, pulse hammering away in his veins as terror’s call plays havoc with his sensibilities.

“Oh for Maker’s sake Alistair, no one has brought that up in years so you can stop trying to pick that fight.” Anora’s bluster knocks him back into the present moment in time for Zevran to gently nudge him into a chair.

He is pale and shaky, voice weak as he apologizes.

“What is happening to you?”

An explanation is long overdue, but tradition holds his tongue. The thought of recusing himself has occurred more than once since the Calling began, but he cannot have his kingdom suffer as people squabble for a chance to play pretend. Eventually he shrugs, doing is best to look sheepish and contrite just enough that they’ll take pity on him.

“Something I ate?”

Anora closes her eyes, takes a deep breath and Alistair is so focused on dodging whatever attack may come from her that he forgets Zevran is standing to his right.

“Your glibness does you no credit my friend, I suggest you placate the lady before she commits regicide.”

Alistair holds up his hands in defeat when Anora takes a step forward, “Alright, alright no need to resort to violence. Humor is all I have these days.”

He doesn’t tell them much; loyalty to the Warden’s best kept secrets feels ingrained in his bones at this point – but he does admit that he is ill.

“Look, you never leave the Grey Wardens. Oh sure you can travel and even settle down if you find that special someone, but joining the Wardens is for life. After a time, that life starts to… deteriorate?” He flounders a few seconds for the right word, but figures he got his point across at the alarm in their eyes.

“You’re dying?”

“Eh… well, maybe that’s not entirely accurate.” Alistair hedges, but it’s out in the open now and he’s helpless as Anora begins to pace his study. She mumbles to herself too quickly for him to pick up on what she’s planning – it makes him quite dizzy to watch her.

After a few minutes had passed Zevran finally speaks, “That is why she left, to find a cure for what ails you both.”

Anora pivots in time to see Alistair’s reluctant nod, “Does that mean she’s ill as well?”

It’d been a question he asked himself every day since the nightmares began. The thought of her feeling the chilly claws of death while traveling on her own made his heart throb in distress.

“Duncan said it depended on the Warden. Some have gone as long as thirty years before succumbing to the darkness. If it weren’t for Oghren and the others feeling it too, I might think it possible for it to be natural however they joined after me. One Grey Warden falling ill is one thing, a handful is not natural.”

“Didn’t Leliana’s earlier letters speak of the Warden’s disappearing as well? Could the whole order be feeling whatever this is?”

It’s a terrifying thought. It begs the question who, or what, could cause every Grey Warden to feel the Calling at the same time. Alistair isn’t sure he wants to know and says as much before the topic is dropped.

The answer comes three days later: Corypheus.

Leliana’s letter is heavy in his hands; the weight of the lives lost out of desperation and fear make him feel decades older than he actually is. The assault on Adamant Fortress happens while he sits on his cold throne in an empty, unlit room. The urge to join them in battle is ferocious, a pack of wolves trapped behind steel ribs that wants to bend to their gnashing teeth.

Duty keeps him safe in Denerim, but his heart mourns when he learns of Stroud’s fate.

‘ _That could’ve been me._ ’

In another life the ultimate sacrifice would’ve been his to make and Lisbeth the last face to cross his mind as he let the Fade take whatever it wanted.

Pulled from his daydream by a gentle knock, Alistair calls for his guest to enter and has no room for embarrassment when his stomach growls when he sees the plate of food in Zevran’s hands.

“I take it your mission went well?”

Zevran nods, “Leliana is putting my skills to good use and causing the Crows trouble has become my second favorite pastime.”

“What’s your first – no don’t tell me… seducing Rivaini pirates?”

Zevran chuckles then concedes, “Okay perhaps my third favorite pastime then.”

Laughter feels almost foreign these days, but it is a welcome distraction from the daily weight he carries around. Zevran watches him expectantly and Alistair shrugs, “Please enlighten me.”

“Why, being your bodyguard of course. These past ten years have been quite exciting.”

His tone is light, jesting as it often is, but the sentiment is sincere. It feels like a lifetime ago since they swapped stories over an open fire, each one of them trying to outdo the other. Zevran often won, but Lisbeth has scandalous gossip from Orzammar that left everyone – even Morrigan – dumbfounded.

Clearly not expecting a reply, Zevran lapses into silence seemingly content with checking the ties of his leather armor while Alistair finishes his meal. Afterwards they leave the throne room together and Alistair stops him before they part ways for the rest of the night.

“Thank you, my friend, for staying by my side.”

Alistair does not linger, heading to the kitchens to return his dishes before retiring to bed. The dreams have stopped; Corypheus’ hold on the Wardens weakened enough for their minds and bodies to reassert their independence. His mind remains uneasy however as he tries to picture what landscape surrounds his love.

She is a blurred figure dancing through the Fade, always just out of reach. Before the sun’s light pulls him into the waking world he manages to catch her. Laughing she pulls him down and their lips meet softer than a feather’s caress.

‘ _Wait for me_.’

A sharp caw wretches Alistair from his phantom lover’s kiss so he levers a glare in the direction of the intruder.

“You couldn’t have waited five minutes?”

The crow watches on, unimpressed, and emits another loud caw spurring Alistair into action. Legs tangled in his sheets, he stumbles and he swears the crow snickers at him.

“I’m telling your mother about your poor manners, just you wait.”

Turning around to flip its tail up at him, the crow drops its scroll and darts out the window before Alistair can throw a pillow at it. He grumbles and begins drafting a scathing reply while simultaneously wondering what’s happened to warrant a letter from Leliana.

He stops breathing when his eyes land on the letters that were clearly not written by the Inquisition’s Spymaster.

_My love,_

_Whatever the Inquisition is paying Leliana is not enough seeing as how she managed to track me down. Of course she would succeed where others have failed. I’d gladly sit here and write you a novel of my travels, but foul weather is coming and I don’t want to keep her agent waiting too long. While I have encountered challenges of my own, they have not involved any weakness related to Corypheus or his control over the Calling so put that from your mind; I’ve no desire to journey into the Deep Roads now or in the foreseeable future. Leliana assured me you stayed put in Denerim and for that I am beyond grateful. If I come back with a cure only for something to happen to you I’d punch my way into the Fade to bring you back. With every second of distance between us, I find my resolve wavering until my mind conjures the most fantastical of visions where we are warm and wrinkled, surrounded by kin we’ve given a home to._

_I want that future with you more than anything._

_Don’t lose hope – I will return._

_Yours always,  
Lisbeth_

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

He marries during the thirteenth year of his reign.

**Author's Note:**

> This was work, I mean I had like 10 tabs open checking on lore and other stuff so I hope it flows well. I kinda had this headcanon that Alistair just adopts a few kids whose parents/families were victims of the mage/templar war and tells his advisers, "Look, I have heirs - let me marry my dwarf already!"
> 
> Sooooooo I might actually write that as a sequel to this (maybe a 2nd chapter) - let me know what y'all think? 
> 
> I also have plans to write their reunion too, fear not. (5 years is a long time) Not to mention I gotta go back and write about DAO things (primarily putting Bhelen on the throne) so I'm no where near done with these two.


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